A Throwback Thursday piece by Yvonne Jayne, originally published July 2014.
I am shaped by her thought of me,
I am named in her dreams,
Baptized by her vision of me
And born into her likeness.
I am shattered by her disappointments
I cry for her lost life,
I fall in her vacuum and
I flail in her failures.
I am driven by her dreams,
I am powered by her regrets,
She is capsized by the curse
Of her marriage to a madman.
I am rocked by his rages
Storms in the long night,
His genius beats against his bars
I am shattered by his disappointments.
I am unsteady, rising to the sun,
I am called in visions
To express what is sinking,
Back to the core of me again.
I am unheard in my expression
Struggling to have a voice,
I am told to stop being dramatic
And make obedience my choice.
I am shattered by their disappointments
Drowning in their struggles,
Each is the enemy of the other
Storms in the long night.
A new poem by Harley Claes.
I think I can only sleep next to you in sex trance
when the veil is fresh from sociopath
and the smile sweet from narcissus
when I’m lucid you’re but a monster with the urge to
choke out the docile
in every woman and mother that is not she, your great
love and captor
your long lost blood line
fleeting and finicky
dependent and long foreseen
knowing if she could see
she would be ashamed
2 new poems by Naomi Borkent
All Mothers Were Summoned When George Floyd Called Out For His
A black man lays cuffed on the ground
A white man’s knee crushing his neck.
He calls out for his Mother.
His dying breaths, to plead for his Momma.
To plead for air, for breath.
Mine catches in my chest.
I want to turn away, I don’t want to see.
I don’t want to see the fruit of generations of hatred, systemic discrimination and abuse.
I want to say: “I don’t see colour!” But I do.
I see you, I see you, I see you. I do not understand your pain. I cannot. But I understand my privilege.
Skin That Looks Like Mine
Skin that looks like mine, you see in magazines.
Skin that’s white.
Pale, translucent and milky.
Skin that says: “Eurocentric Beauty”
Says: “Sorry, Officer. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
But skin that looks like his
Skin that looks like hers…
Chocolate, latte, cinnamon
Kissed by the sun, made of Earth
Says: “Where are you really from?”
Says: “You don’t belong.”
One whose tongue remembers the language of their great-grandmothers…but speaks English instead.
I can’t pretend to understand your pain. Your righteous anger. But I stand with you.
New poem by Casey Catherine Moore
Is the bottled-up emotions, forced down by Uranus into Gaia’s belly
The tears that leak out after ages of suppression
Our oppression is when the words
Are trapped on the backs of our tongues
And feelings pull forth instead
Like the last bit of honey oozing from the jar
They call us hysterical, a word tied to the darkness of the womb, hystera
But you need no womb to be a woman and to be a woman is to be transcendent
They teach us to be givers, to twist ourselves in different spaces
They tell us we are both Madonnas and whores
They build the gilded cage and ask us to dance
And call us bossy when we make the rules
When Pandora was made from Earth Phobos screamed
And man took heed and tried to shovel her back down
But woman is necessity, Ananke, and because she is darkness she is the only thing who
can chase away Night.
New poem by M. Magee
All telling stories
Like tender snowflakes
All part of a raging storm
They call to me
And to you
And to all of us
Rage! Die! Kill! Scream!
Don’t let the mean ones in
Don’t let the nice ones out
Don’t let me out
Rage against the machine.
Such an awesome word
Tracing snow-angels after the storm
One, Two, Three
Angels in a row
All Her Stories left there
Three dead snow-angels
New poem by Tanasha Martin
I am laid bare.
An ink tattoo
with scarlet cells
my body welcomes
and warms, and
as is written,
I take my place
and multiply –
an option you should appreciate
and you say you do, but you
I am exposed.
of once tiny scarlet cells
to a body
and warmed, and
as is written,
I took my place
and she multiplied –
but no options were ever appreciated,
only met with white-knuckled
We live on display.
shunned by the blind; we
and torn, and
as is written
you take your
and as hypocrites do, multiply –
For the options of outrage are reciprocal,
its fury seizes you by the throat.
Our ears will repeatedly ring
with spurious sentiment,
but it should subdue and
soothe our souls to know:
is not an admirable attribute.
Breeds no mercy in your belief.
When hate is what you live to breed – promote,
Mercy is what you will have revoked.
New poem by Kim Malinowski
I bet Aphrodite didn’t have to shave her armpits,
no, she would go natural.
A goddess doesn’t have to conform
to societal pressures—
she is the pressure, the ideal, the embodiment
of desire and sensualness.
So, when I think of Aphrodite,
I think of her naked self as hairy,
maybe her navel a little linty.
Maybe her hair doesn’t cascade
to her waist and maybe both of her breasts
aren’t plump, maybe one is a little lopsided,
and the other a little red at the base.
She has curves and a belly—after all
she ate all that goddess food.
And her eyes are lightning, daring humans
with her sumptuousness, her dazzling bounty.
She spins and the heavens just drool.
That’s what rain is.
Goddesses don’t shave, they just look damn good
in whatever they wear, and do it with pizazz.
That’s right: S/tick Issue 4.4 Angry/Mad is finally here!
What you’ll find inside:
And watch here for more Angry/Mad blog posts in the coming months! We will be posting a new piece 1-2 times per week.
Please share widely so we can reach more feminist readers and encourage more feminist writers!
New poem by Aimee Curran
I believe her.
Drinking too much coffee to stay
awake during the darkest hours.
Waiting up with the moon until it
glides past the lip of the ocean.
I believe her.
Filling herself with strangers
to keep him away in the shadows.
Flicking on the lights despite their protests
and never staying through the night.
I believe her.
Spending holidays at the movies
always buying one ticket and a box of Goobers.
Every Christmas eating pork lo mein at
Cathay Kitchen and asking for extra fortune cookies.
I believe her.
Writing poetry on napkins at the local
cafe, taking advantage of free refills.
Showing up every month at open mic,
sitting in the back, working up the courage to speak.
New poem by Anne Leigh Parrish
Fire eats the forest
Evergreens turn to ash
Water chokes the canyon
Slopes fall under mud
Wind inhales the neighborhood
Throws rafters to the ground
A woman gives her body out of hunger for the touch
Her private land is fertile where scattered seeds are sown
Until all goes wild again
And yearns only for what
The heavens coyly know